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justmcshaneI've been horribly sick for the last couple of days, so I've struggled to get anything of note done. Which is bad, because the deadline for iddyiddybangbang is fast approaching and I'm nowhere near done. On the other hand, it turns out that high fevers make for interesting dreams, and the one I had last night was particularly wonderful, so I decided to convert it to fic form. I don't feel like I quite captured how great this particular dream was, but it's close enough that I feel happy enough sharing it here. Not sure about AO3 or anywhere else, though - not yet.
Please feel free to picture this all taking place in a dusty old road cafe somewhere in West Virginia - which really is nowhere near where I live, but it's close enough for the mood I have in mind.
I’m retuning my guitar between songs when I spot him, sitting across the room. My first thought is no, that’s impossible – and it’s a completely rational thought, given the circumstances. This café is more than a little out of the way, for one thing, and it’s far too late at night for more than a few people to be sitting in on my unpaid, this-is-just-exposure-work gig, and also (and this is the most important thing) he doesn’t exist, what the hell – did I forget to take my meds again?
My second thought (ostensibly) is simple: probably a cosplayer.
I can only see the back of him, anyway; he’s in one of the corner seats with a cup of tea, talking to his dark-haired friend (who I don’t recognize, and who is studying some sort of electronic device), and that cream hat and jacket combo could literally belong to anybody. After a second of studying him from behind and frowning to myself, I chalk it up to my overactive imagination and the late hour.
I finish tuning the bottom two strings, and strum it a few times, before shifting the capo up a few frets and leaning into the microphone to announce my next song. And midway through Hallelujah, I see him turn to face the stage out of the corner of my eye. I chance a glance over in his direction. He’s smiling faintly, apparently enjoying the performance, and – dear god, holy shit, what, it’s not just my imagination, because the little man sitting in the corner of the room is most definitely the Doctor.
I stumble and slip on the next chord and the next line, but after a second or two, I tear my attention away from him long enough to finish up the song. There’s scattered, half-hearted applause, and I smile and thank everybody before picking up my set book to find a new song to do.
My eyes fall on a certain song title. Impulse strikes, and without even thinking about it, I’m readjusting my capo and pulling out a new pick and grabbing the microphone so I can ask, “hey, I know that this is a bit of a weird thing to ask, but,” and there’s only, what, ten people in total in the café tonight so it’s not that much of a risk, “I’ve been thinking about playing a certain song for a while now – but it really needs a certain type of accompaniment for the proper effect.”
Most people look vaguely interested, a little intrigued – this is breaking the standard pattern of entertainer-entertainee interactions, and my anxiety is going into overload – but none of these late-night café-goers seem like the sort of people to volunteer themselves for a public musical display.
The little man in the corner is leaning across the back of his chair, watching me with that same slight smile as before.
“So, uh –” I’m losing the nerve to go through with this, and hurry myself on. “Seems like a bit of a stretch to ask this of y’all, but if anybody knows or can improvise a decent beat – the tradition is washerboard, I think, but I’m thinking nobody here knows that anyway, so. Anything goes. Banging on the table, castanets,” and I’m very carefully not looking at him as I say, offhandedly, “spoons…”
The five-or-so people that are still paying attention all laugh or make noises as if to say, not me, maybe somebody else could go up and –
“Okay, no volunteers?” I ask, grinning. “Didn’t figure. Nevermind – in that case, the next song is –“
“Just a moment,” calls somebody, somebody with a distinctly Scottish accent, somebody who’s sitting in a far, secluded corner of the café. I look over to see the little man struggling to pull something out from the inside of his jacket. He glances up, and shoots a brilliant smile at me. “Just need to find where I put them, again – aha!” And here he pulls out a pair of long-handled spoons, which he brandishes with no small amount of delight.
“I see we’ve got a volunteer,” I say, trying not to hide my instant reaction of panic and oh god what now, I didn’t think this far ahead. “Hello there, sir. Uh, if you – want to come up, we can… try and do this?”
“Certainly,” he says with a grin, and comes all the way up to the stage – basically just a glorified platform – to sit on the edge of it. He twirls the spoons, and executes a few well-practiced staccato notes. “What’s your song of choice this evening, young lady?”
Despite my anxiety and the overwhelming unreality of this situation, I find myself grinning too. He looks like he’s in a good mood for some reason, and it’s infectious. “D’you know Devil Went Down To Georgia?”
“A classic,” he says, nodding. “I do, and I approve wholeheartedly. Shall we –?”
For a minute or two, we engage in a quick discussion about tempo and logistics. After a brief, feedback-inducing experiment, we establish that his spoon-playing is loud enough to carry on its own and he doesn’t need to borrow a microphone. It almost reminds me of high school jazz band – direct, to the point; but still quite laid-back, somehow.
And then, when we’re just about ready, I pull over the mic and say, “ladies and gentlemen; this is our impromptu cover of Charlie Daniels’ The Devil Went Down to Georgia. And if anything goes wrong while we’re doing it, I’m blaming it all on this guy,” I add, jerking a finger over at him.
He pulls a face at me, making me laugh, and then he laughs too, and says, “a-one, two – one-two-three-four!” before he spins his spoons again and starts clicking them together like it’s the most natural thing in the world, bringing them up and down against his knee and the back of his hand.
I nod along for the first couple of bars, and then adjust my pick and join in, tapping my foot to the beat and strumming frantically to keep up with him. He’s going just fast enough that I can match his pace, but any faster and I’d be lost.
We don’t have a fiddle to accompany us, so it’s by mutual, silent agreement that we stretch out the introduction for a bit longer than strictly necessary. He’s very good at playing those spoons of his – he’s swinging them around and click-clacking them together and twining them between his fingers at lightning speed, and I’m almost sorry that we’re playing a duet, because I want to watch him with my full attention.
When I feel like we’ve had enough time for this, I play three quick, ringing chords, and then I do it again, and I belt out, “the Devil went down to Georgia – he was lookin' for a soul to steal! He was in a bind 'cause he was way behind – he was willing to make a deal!”
I had never really got the hang of singing this song the way it was originally recorded – the non-melodic patter style it was in wasn’t quite my thing. And besides, twisting around melodies so that they sounded different was a favorite hobby of mine.
“When he came across this young man sawin' on a fiddle and playin' it hot!” I continued, and saw that, even though he was still playing the spoons with as much speed and energy as before, the little man on stage next to me was standing up. I quirked an eyebrow at him, and he just smiled back. “And the Devil jumped upon a hickory stump and said –”
“Boy, let me tell you what!” he cuts in, leaning over to the microphone, and I laugh again, pleased but not entirely surprised. I play the next few chords, and continue playing, as he takes up the next verse of the song, sung by the Devil. He’s not quite singing it, and not quite flat-out reciting it either, and it’s not the best rendition of it I’ve heard in my life (he’s definitely better at playing the spoons, really) but there’s a certain magic to it all the same.
“Well, my name’s Johnny,” I boast as he finishes the verse and steps back, still playing against his knee and forearm, as I slide myself over to the mic again, “and it might be a sin – but I'll take your bet – and you're gonna regret! – 'cause I'm the best there's ever been!"
We dive right into the chorus, and I’m almost disappointed when he doesn’t join me in singing it, but it’s short enough, and he takes over the part that would usually be a fiddle solo with a delightful display of spoonery in which he throws them – one, two – right up into the air during a pause, and then catches them, not missing a beat. There’s a vague cheer and some scattered clapping from the audience, which is now about three-quarters of the patronage of the café.
I beam over at him, and launch right into the next verse, starting out high and spiralling down into a lower octave. “The Devil opened up his case and he said –”
"I'll start this show!” he chimes in, tapping his spoons twice against my shoulder.
“And fire flew from his fingertips as he rosined up his bow!” I continue, “and he pulled the bow across the strings and it made an evil hiss –” From my other shoulder, where he’s somehow managed to situate himself, he leans over and taps the spoons to the mic, causing what sounds like a calculatedly brief hiss of feedback that’s not nearly bad enough to cause anybody at all to wince. “ – and a band of demons joined in – and it sounded something like this!”
I point at him with a free hand, and then promptly launch back into accompanying him with chords and guitar nonsense as he proceeds to go absolutely hog-wild on his spoons. He’s kicking up his feet to tap the cutlery on them, and clink-click-clacking them all along the back of the chair I’m sitting on, and tossing them up into the air, even higher than before. His hand falls on my shoulder, and I flinch ever so slightly at the sudden contact, but he manages to play the spoons up and down the sides of my head without it ever so much as stinging. And it’s about that moment that I know that this guy is absolutely, completely and utterly for real.
I stand up as he finishes his spoon solo, still playing, and step to one side of the mic as I sing, “And when the Devil finished, Johnny said, ‘well, you're pretty good, ol' son.’” I tilt my head at him. “But sit down in that chair – right there!” and obligingly, he springs across to sit in the chair, right on cue and this is definitely one of those real-life musical moments I’ve always dreamed of, “and let me show you how it's done!”
And I spin straight into the second chorus without pausing to think, and it takes me a moment to realise that this time he’s joined me in doing so. As soon as I register what’s happening, I jump down a third and take up an improvised harmony, and – wow, we sound good. He’s still throwing out staccato notes and melodies in the key of stainless steel from where he’s sitting on my usual chair, and I get the impression that he could do this literally forever without breaking a sweat. My fingers are aching from the relentless, high-pace music, but I’m having the time of my life.
We exchange a glance. He tilts his head at me, a silent question, and I nod in understanding, and then play those core three chords as we slip back into the last verse of the song.
“The Devil bowed his head because he knew that he'd been beat,” he sing-delivers, taking up the narration as he rises up from the chair, “and he laid that golden fiddle on the ground at Johnny's feet. Johnny said –”
“Devil, just come on back if you ever wanna try again!” I exclaim, sliding back into my place, so high on the music and energy that I barely miss a chord or strum. “'Cause I've told you once – you son of a bitch! – I'm the best there's ever been!”
Somebody from the tiny audience cheers – faint, but audible. I look out at them, somewhat surprised – for a moment, I had forgotten that they were even there. Mostly everybody’s watching by this point; not surprising considering how much of a scene we’re making.
The chorus again, and we throw ourselves into it whole-heartedly, throwing lyrics back and forth and leaving rhythms and melodies hanging in the air for the other to snatch up before the thread of the song is left. We’re speeding up – my fingers might actually be bleeding – and it’s crazy, frenetic, wonderful stuff. We finish together, with an echoing D-minor chord and a clattering of cutlery, and it’s probably not correct to say that the crowd goes wild (because there aren’t enough of them for it to be properly considered a crowd at all, mainly), but the clapping is enthusiastic and at least one person whistles. I can see the girl with dark hair from earlier looking up from the strange device in her hands and smiling absently at the scene.
He leans over, tucking his spoons back into his cream jacket, and extends his hand to me. I take it, beaming, and shake it firmly.
“That was awesome, thanks,” I tell him breathlessly, reaching down to the base of my chair to grab my bottle of water.
“My pleasure,” he replies, tapping the side of his nose. “I can never pass up an opportunity for a good, old-fashioned duet. It’s a particular weakness of mine. And may I inquire as to the name of the musician of the evening?” he adds, tilting his head at me in a questioning manner.
I tell him my name. “I’m here every Friday,” I add, taking a swig of water. “Always looking for new people to rope into my act. It’s awful lonely up here.”
“Really?” he asks, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
“Nope,” I admit, laughing. “I have crippling social anxiety, actually. No idea what possessed me to look for volunteers, but – y’know what? I’m sure glad I did.”
“I see,” he says gravely. “Well, in that case, I am very glad you did too.”
“So, I haven’t seen you in this café before,” I say, fiddling around with my guitar strings. I pluck out an octave. “And I’m here an awful lot. You know my name - so what’s yours?”
“I’m known as the Doctor,” he says, and I swear to god my heart just stops, but he doesn’t seem to notice, because he gestures back into that corner table he was sitting at, “and that over there is my friend, Raine. We’re just passing through.”
I freeze, momentarily, and even though I’ve suspected it was him the moment he stepped up to join me onstage – maybe even before – I find that I’m utterly floored by the fact that it’s now been outright confirmed to me that I was right. There’s a million and one things I could be saying right now. Thank you for keeping my childhood interesting. Thank you for saving all of us, time and time again. Thank you for showing me how to be brave, how to be kind, how to fight the monsters – for giving me hope.
I don’t say any of that. Instead, I tell him, “you’re really good at those spoons, y’know,” and he tips his hat at me cheerily and thanks me again for an excellent duet, and hops off the stage to join his friend back at the corner table.
I spend a minute or two retuning my guitar, because the entire incident succeeded in putting it out of key good and proper, and as I do, I notice that the two of them have exchanged some words, and are walking across the café with the obvious intent of leaving.
“One more time,” I call out to the audience, just as the Doctor and Raine are heading out the door, “give it up for one hell of an incredible spoon performance by –” I hesitate for a heartbeat, wanting to give some sort of indication that I know, but not sure how obvious I should make it.
“– from the Professor!” I decide on. “Who’s one hell of a guy, by the way!”
The small gathering doesn’t exactly give it up, but there’s some more polite clapping, and one or two appreciative cheers. From out the window, I manage to catch the Doctor’s eye, and although he looks somewhat surprised, he smiles at me, and I shoot him a quick thumbs-up.
“New song,” I decide, and flip through my set book. There’s not much I can do that can follow up a performance like that, I know, but I’ve got fifteen minutes left on this set and I at least need to put in some semblance of an effort.
I settle on a song at last, and shift the capo down to the first fret.
“This is Seven-Nation Army by the White Stripes,” I say, and start to play.
Across the street, I can see a light flashing, and the distant sound of a box being squeezed through the tiny gaps that bridge time and space, and I grin to myself.
